Page 70 of Vicious Intentions
Rafe:What would a word like sorry even measure against the pain I have caused? No, Anna. Sorry does not even come close to the guilt I feel for hurting you. I am beyond redemption for that sin. I know that. All I can do is atone for it now.
My mouth slackens at his words. This does not sound like Raffaele at all. I was expecting a joke or a deflection, something silly, like a little meme where he pretends that everything between us is fine. That it has always been fine. Instead, what I get is something quieter, more restrained, more subdued.
Me:You sound older.
He reads my text but doesn’t respond.
Me:It wasn’t an accusation. I just…
I trail off. I just what?
The truth is, I wasn’t expecting him to reach out today or any day for that matter. Much less send me that quote or offer me his willingness to atone for the pain he caused me. I was not expectingthis Raffaeleat all.
Rafe:How are you?
Those three simple words carry far more weight now that he knows what has been running through my head.
Me:I’m still here.
It is the only truth I can manage when my nerves are this shot and frazzled.
Rafe:I am glad.
Is he? Or is that just something people say when confronted with that question, and the only acceptable answer is ‘I’m fine’?
I don’t text back. Instead, I shove the phone back into its hiding place, lie on my bed, and stare up at the ceiling.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined the day I would speak to Raffaele again. Sometimes, in my mind, I picture myself yelling at him, cursing him, hitting him. Other times, I imagine falling into his arms and crying until there was nothing left. But most often, when I imagine us alone together, I see myself staring at him in silence as he slowly fades from view, like smoke thinning into the air. As if he were never real to begin with. Almost as if I had conjured him into existence, born from a young girl’s need for a friend.
As I lie in bed, replaying our exchange, I wonder if my recent melancholy did not conjure him up a second time. As if he somehow knew I needed a friend now more than ever. The question is whether I can trust his intentions or if they will turn vicious once again.
The next day, I awake in the middle of the night to another notification from Raffaele.
Rafe:“Out of the ash, I rise with my red hair.”
It is another verse from Plath’s collection of poems, this one from “Lady Lazarus.” The poem frames survival as rebirth rather than recovery. It shows how hope can be fierce, angry, and alive. It does not need to be gentle in order to be real. It is just as powerful as the verse he sent me yesterday, and just as thoughtful. Instead of acknowledging what he is trying to do with each quote, I send him a teasing text, hoping it will bring back the lighter side of Raffaele—the version of him I was more comfortable with.
Me:I’m surprised. I never thought you read books, much less have some sort of kink for Sylvia Plath.
Rafe:I like to read since it’s the closest way to understand the human experience without having lived every part of it yourself.
My eyes widen as I read his response again.
Me:Are you saying you’ve never felt sad before? Lonely?
I know he has. If he says otherwise, he’s lying.
Rafe:I’ve felt all those emotions and more. Still, I am incapable of living someone else’s pain or fully empathizing with it if I’m always comparing it with my own.
A lump forms in my throat, forcing me to swallow dryly just to push it down.
Me:Is this your way of calling me selfish?
Is that what he’s saying? That I’m self-centered? Is that what he’s taken away from listening to my most personal thoughts?
Rafe:I’m calling you human. Everyone hurts, Anna. Everyone carries pain. Some people use that pain for sustenance. Others let it break them. Neither is more than the other. Pain is pain. Suffering is suffering.
I can’t help but reread his text once, twice, three times, and still find myself unable to form an appropriate response.
